


The Only Thing That Looks Good On Me

by blessedjessed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Person, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Content, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedjessed/pseuds/blessedjessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John wears a bespoke suit, and Sherlock suddenly has difficulty concentrating on his work. Fluffy little one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Thing That Looks Good On Me

**Author's Note:**

> For Ambra, because she's awesome.
> 
> Largely unbeta'd, so please do let me know of any mistakes.

“Sherlock, are you all right?”

Muttered words break through internal deductions.  John’s voice is low, concerned – hand on forearm, squeezing gently. He’s very worried – latest mental process must have gone on for a while. Pitch of voice suggests others in the room have not yet noticed – John doesn’t want them to.  Flick eyes to his – brow is slightly creased, mouth in thin line, his eyes searching face.  Must answer.

Most accurate answer – “No, I am not.”  This answer would require an explanation.  Most truthful explanation? “I was imagining stripping you lovingly out of that sharp black suit I bought you, bending you over Lestrade’s desk and ravishing you.”

NO.  While that sentence is not morally wrong, there are whole worlds of Not Good to be found in saying it to your flatmate-cum-secret-lover in front of an office full of Scotland Yard officers who don’t know you’re a couple. Suspect result of saying it now would be many nights spent in own bed alone.

Answer “Yes, fine, John.” Tone – slightly irritable. Pull arm out of anxious grip.  Eyebrows crease a little further – John is annoyed but still concerned.  Must stop focussing on the lines around John’s eyes.  Have not kissed them yet while he’s frowning – imagine texture of skin below lips, mapping each ridge and fall and cataloguing for reference, so his expressions are identifiable by kisses alone.  Wonder if he’d be receptive to the idea of pulling expressions to be traced with lips.

No.  Stop.  Need to finish case.  Very close now – know it was her mother by reactions alone, but lack the forensic evidence to prove it.  Need access to kitchen – suspect the chloroform is hidden in the spice rack from trace evidence at the scene.  Need to find pretence to gain access to kitchen – Lestrade needs warrant and won’t come.  Could pose as plumber – still have the outfit from the case on board the cruise ship.

“You need to stop.  Take it easy.”  John’s voice again.  Low.  Lestrade, Donovan etc., still haven’t noticed abstracted state.  John’s breath on ear – hair standing on end.  Ooh.  No. Case. _Focus_.

“I’m in the middle of a case, John.”  Yes, right in the middle, and thoughts about ripping your suit off you are a distraction.  Never thought anyone could miss that awful beige cable-knit jumper but at least it didn’t turn you into a walking transmitter of carnal thoughts.  Somehow the very sight of you in a well-tailored suit is enough to short-circuit all neurons and redirect them via baser instincts.  Not even murder can stop it, although this one ceased to be very interesting a few hours ago when I deduced the murder weapon. 

“You’re deadly pale.”  John’s hand twitches and eyes flick briefly to my forehead.  He is thinking of running hands through hair.  Love it when he does that.  “We need to get you home.” Voice is rough, probably just with effort of whispering but it sound like he does when he’s aroused and John you are _not helping._

The suit.  How could I have miscalculated so badly?  John in worn jeans and John in old jumpers is the same essential John as the one in the Saville Row black suit; the quantum of John-ness does not alter according to his garments.  But beauty is subjective, and one unit of John encased in a tailor-made suit results in the exact dose of lust lethal to any higher thought processes.  It is not usual that I underestimate my own brain, although previous model of own mental pathology was sociopathy – ignoring fondness for Mrs Hudson, Molly, even Lestrade.  And now there is John Watson…it is entirely possible I do not know myself as well as previously thought.  Tangential, although perhaps in hindsight it illuminates why convincing John to wear a well-tailored suit for a case and then making him keep it on was a less-than-stellar idea. 

Original motives were only half-selfish.  Needed a well-dressed companion to gain (slightly underhand) access to suspect’s home; John entered living room at vital moment in thought process , a sartorial disaster in a hideous jumper, and the plan was born.  One quick trip to family tailor and several surreptitious instructions as to cut, and plan was set in motion.  Of course, the moment John actually put the suit on, the unforeseen externalities came into effect and plan was almost ruined by my sheer, unadulterated desire.

 

*

 

In a taxi, on the way to lab.  Need to plan how to gain access to the suspect’s home but have instead been staring at a crease of skin on John’s jaw.  Curiosity has been aroused (amongst other things. Ha.) Love has always been categorised as a fleeting thing, a temporary urge of the body much like hunger.  The urge fuels fantasy and threatens to drag large portions of mental capacity into dwelling on the physical symptoms and how to alleviate them.  I imagined sex and attraction would be the same, and had made contingencies for the day our (affair? Liaison? Relationship?) ended.

(Predict that John will lose interest first.  There is simply too much Watson to be mapped and catalogued and experimented on – enough for a lifetime of experiments, if he’ll allow it.  John has much harder task in putting up with an antisocial detective who leaves body parts in the fridge and, apparently, snores.  His patience is unlikely to last.  Contingency involved retirement from consulting and keeping bees.  Complex social and honey-producing methods should distract the mind long enough to purge it of sex, or at least the evidence suggested at the time.  Current evidence suggests the fastest way to recover from John Watson leaving would be a seven per cent solution of morphine and a quick death by overdose.)

However, it has been two months since the assumption of the current living situation and the fantasies have not been alleviated one bit.  Progress of exploring new relationship territory with John has been sorely impeded by the need to repeat previous activities.  For example, the crease of skin on jaw has been kissed, licked, nipped, nuzzled and stroked.  It would be possible to identify John Watson by just that piece of flesh alone so why, now it is all stored safely away and there is so much Other John to receive the same treatment, _why_ am I almost unable to resist leaning across the taxi seat and kissing it again?

Unlike hunger, the physical act of alleviating the symptoms seems only to fuel a drive to repeat the act.  Counter-intuitive.  Eating does not drive you to eat more and more and more.  (Memorandum – ask John if there is a syndrome like this – may be useful to know).  But the more sex we have and the more sexual acts we perform the more intense the fantasies and higher my drive to fulfil them.  Is this normal?  Possibly a manifestation of my aneurotypicality?  Or worse, is this what love feels like for everyone?  How do they cope?  My mind feels as though it is at capacity and bursting through just attempting to function when all higher functions are involuntarily dedicated to imagining doing unspeakable things to a naked John Watson, and I have a higher processing power than anyone.  How does anyone in love get through the day without sinking into a mire of lustful thoughts?

Taxi arriving at St Barts now.  Need to do some research on poisons, confirm that forensic evidence means what I think it does.  Seems like a textbook case of chloroform poisoning but there are anomalous traces that need investigation before I can break into a suspect’s house dressed like a plumber and get away with it.  John jumps out of taxi first, displaying a well-muscled arse in exquisitely tight black trousers.  The cut accentuates his behind perfectly – this was part of the specification when the suit was made.  Deviousness has its uses.

 

*

 

Anomalies in culture may well be saffron.  Need Molly to run an extra test to be sure but confirms deduction that murder weapon (small glass bottle of chloroform) has been amateurishly concealed in murder’s spice rack.  Have to question wisdom of keeping volatile and toxic substance in working kitchen in which the spice rack is frequently in use, unless toxicity adds a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to a dish.  A rustle behind me – John has taken off his jacket and laid it on a chair.  Focus on the microscope.  Is there anything else that would prove the ownership of the chloroform?  Another swish of material – John’s tie joins his jacket, and then two buttons of his shirt pop.  Body freezes and mind is wrenched away from case and suddenly all that fills it is the possibility of John’s shirt joining his jacket and tie.  No further rustling but John steps so close that his body heat reaches my skin through three layers of clothing. 

“You may be a genius, Sherlock Holmes,” he says into right ear.  “But you are completely fucking transparent sometimes.”  Try to repress shudder.  Skin below his breath is goose-pimpling.  Want to reach out and touch but last modicum of self-control demands that I do not look away from the microscope.

“Am I indeed?” Aiming for indifference and slight annoyance, but throat is try and tongue suddenly seems too big for own mouth.  John’s hand slides under jacket and up ribs.  Answering shiver runs down spine and suddenly it becomes impossible to feign indifference any longer.  Back arches and eyes flicker half-closed as John’s other hand slides over smooth skin of throat.  Heart-rate increasing, skin flushing, slight tremor in fingertips due to intensity of breathing.

“Yes,” replies John, pressing lips to lobe of ear.  Turn face to meet his, desperate for lips on lips now, but am denied.  John’s mouth now at other ear, voice low and sinful with epinephrine and dopamine.  “You haven’t been able to focus all day.  All your attention has been on me…” He pauses.  Kisses skin of neck.  Bite back moan.  His fingers slip millimetres below waistband of trousers – grasp his wrist impulsively.  Unsure whether to pull hand away ( _We can’t fuck in the lab, John_ ) or thrust it further down. His thumb tilts my chin back and I am finally rewarded with a kiss and oh, _John_.

How, how are you doing this to me?  How can the simple movement of lips and tongues and teeth lead me to such a dereliction of thought and intellect that I am seriously considering bending over the bench and letting you take me?  And the suit is just a distraction, just an addition because what is overwhelming my tastebuds and filling by sinuses and burning my skin is John, pure John and I would want you this hard if you wore sackcloth and horsehair. 

The kiss breaks and we stare at each other, breath hot on one another’s cheeks and perhaps we are breathing into one another’s lungs. 

“How soon until you’ve finished the case?” John whispers, inches away from nose.

“This evening,” I croak.  It’s a promise. I will solve the whole country’s crimes if I must.  But tonight it will be me and John in 221b behind a locked door.

 

*

Case is solved, murderer and accomplice arrested, murder weapon obtained.  Plumber disguise no longer usable, but that can be replaced.  Lestrade seemed suspicious at the breakneck speed with which the case, statements and paperwork were wrapped up.  Tried to keep face neutral but kept catching John’s eye – resultant emotions a fascinating mix of amusement and arousal.  It is now just after nine pm and John is hungry enough that he is considering suggesting getting a takeaway before the night’s activities.  Instead, he shucks off his jacket and it lands in a heap behind him, as I stand leaning on the kitchen door, watching him.

“So,” he says.  “I’m really distracting in this suit, am I?” Each word is carefully shaped and constructed and falls from his lips deliberately – he is savouring this.  It’s a rhetorical question – the deduction is easy enough to make and I don’t answer.  In the next moment John once again whips off his tie and I am rendered incapable of speaking even if I wanted to.  “Well, we can’t have that, can we?  The greatest detective in the world, completely distracted.”  His shoes and socks are next, and he stands barefoot on the living room rug unbuttoning his shirt tantalisingly slowly and my body quivers with the need to touch him.  Not yet.  Not yet.  John’s lips quirk and his eyes glitter – he is enjoying this, enjoying my reactions to his striptease.  Soon the shirt joins the jacket on the floor, and then his fingers move to the belt-buckle and they are steady, oh so steady as mine tremble against the doorframe, alternately holding me up and holding me back.  His fingers very slowly unbutton his trousers and then gravity does the rest of the work and he steps out of them.

"There," he hums, hands on his hips.  "Suit's gone. Logically, the distraction should be, too."  His face is straight but there are lines around his eyes - holding in a smile.  Mouth is dry, head swimming.  Feel slightly faint - suspect week-long neglect of sleep, food and sex is culminating in this moment - biting lip.  Shake head - I refuse to pass out now, right now, when John Watson has mastery in his eyes and nothing but boxers on.

"John," Voice is raspy.  Shiver down John's skin. I can work with raspy.  "As ever, John, you see, but you do not observe." There are two paces from me to John and they feel like the longest walk ever, like a sick joke of relativity dilating time to keep me alone, keep me ever-reaching and solitary.  And then his hands are on my ribcage and mine knead the bare (warm, soft, slightly salty) skin of his shoulders.

"Oh yes?" his lips against my neck, voice deliberately low, thrumming against my larynx in a deliberate attempt to weaken my knees and oh John, it's working.  "What have I failed to observe this time?"  He sucks a small roll of flesh between his teeth. Bites gently. Knees are getting considerably shaky.

"That the suit is nothing but the icing on the cake," draw fingernails down his back in revenge - feel his grip on my shirt tighten convulsively.  "The gilding of the lily."

"You calling me a flower?" John's hands roaming now, one gripping left buttock, other making quick work of the buttons of my shirt.

"Hmm. A triffid, as opposed to a pansy, in your case." John laughs, and then pulls back enough to rip open my shirt, and then it's a matter of seconds before it's on the floor. He stays away, eyes flicking over my half-naked form. Pupils dilated, breath coming quicker than usual. Undiluted desire. Yes.

"You deserve this, you know," before he pulls me into a kiss as over-hasty fingers fiddle with belt-buckle.  Deserve this? Deserve John? No, never. Johns are categorically not meant for half-broken ex-sociopaths with a tendency towards grave-robbing. John Watsons are meant for heroes and to be heroes, and my pre-John stance on heroes was only half untrue.  Heroes may well exist (John) but I am not one of them.  I have stolen this, undeserved - my small parcel of holiness in the touch of his fingers and the bite (ah!) of his teeth on my collarbone.  But the wrinkle is back around his eyes and I suspect this is not what he meant. 

"Deserve?" I manage, finally rid of my wretched trousers and able to kiss John back, tongue and teeth and sliding lips.

"Yes," he gasps, pulling back with kiss-reddened lips. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" Sharp and unexpected push - I tumble back onto the sofa. Briefly consider being annoyed but then John's weight settles over my hips and oh, that's good.  "You with your cheekbones and that ridiculous shirt, swooping around London being so bloody brilliant all the time.  Do you know the level of restraint," he punctuates with kisses down my abdomen, "it takes not to throw you to the floor of a crime scene and take you then and there?"

"Funnily enough," I shiver as his fingers slip inside the elastic of my boxers. "I do. All I could think of in Lestrade's office was bending you over his desk."  John laughs, the movement of his diaphragm jolting against my stomach.  It’s hard not to join in, even though my baser instincts give a brief pang of regret at the heat of passion lost. Laugh cut short as John slides both hands under the waistband of my underwear and grips the outside of my thighs.  Both hands knotted in his hair as though by instinct – breath coming faster, body needs oxygen, the world is suddenly close and suffocating and I would rather die than move a single inch away from him. 

Fast, now.  The pitch of longing is so high between us that my every cell sings with it and I am cupping his erection through his underwear and he shifts against the pressure so enthusiastically I wonder whether we’ll get the chance to be naked.  His hands haul my boxers down to mid-thigh (the way they give suggests a seam has ripped) and then his hand (slick with saliva – didn’t notice him do that) is wrapped around my cock, grasping, tugging, one thumb flicking over my glans and I have to distance myself, I must, or I’ll inhale his scent or catch his eye and be lost.  Every nerve ending is afire and if their tingling translated to light I would shine like a galaxy. 

Climax.

It feels as though I am pulled apart, atom by atom, every one vibrating and rebounding about the universe, bliss translated to kinetic energy.  Ridiculous, inaccurate, merely riding on a wave of neurochemicals and pheromones but John is lying atop me, erection jutting into my hip and my mind turns from science to poetry.  Press lips against his temple – rest there while heart rate returns to something resembling normal. 

Now.  My turn.  Drag hand through semen on stomach, and slip both hands down to John’s groin, and grasp, double handed.  Hold a second as John gasps and shudders.  Familiar breathing pattern against cheek – John is close.  Next task – fit as much pleasure as possible into the next few minutes.  Move one hand to the small of his back – trace small circles in the small of his back, between spine and buttocks.  Grip (left) earlobe between lips – alternate kissing and nibbling.  Less than six minutes until my good doctor is shuddering, his forehead pressed into my shoulder and lips whispering curses that I relish as though they were the sweetest declarations of love.

Movements, shuffling, wiping ejaculate off the furnishings as much as is possible with neither of us prepared to move as far as the kitchen or the bathroom.  May provide an interesting study on the effect of semen splatter on brown leather, anyway. End up on the floor, shoulders propped against the sofa with my eyes closed; John lengthways on the cushions, curled towards me, hands in hair, stomach rumbling slightly.  Bliss. 

“That was great,” he says, fingertips tracing the shell of my ear.  “Although I was hoping it would last longer.”

“Give me ten minutes,” voice is slightly hoarse.  “And we’ll have a second round.”  John laughs, leaning down to kiss my temple.  Feel alternately warm and crossed with delightful chills. 

“I need dinner, first.  And possibly a nap.  It has been interesting though.”

Open eyes, swivel to face John, eyebrows raised.  John grins.

“It’s been a study in how to drive Sherlock Holmes half-mad with lust,” he says.  “Apparently, it’s all to do with what you wear.  Shallow, aren’t you?”  Slap him on the thigh for that.  He laughs again.  “Seriously, though – this is worth exploring.  What else could I wear? A tux, maybe?”

Hum agreement.  Tight black trousers and a silk cummerbund around his compact waist.  Must find occasion for John to wear a tux. 

“Oh, what about skinny jeans? Don’t know how good I’d look, but…”

Imagine John in skintight black jeans.  Significant portions of brain short out.

“What jeans size do you wear?” I ask when next capable of speech.  John rolls back on the sofa, grinning up at the ceiling.

“You’re the detective.  Work it out.”

Head falls back on to the sofa, smiling.  How odd.  I am caseless, in severe danger of mental stagnation, and yet my mind still whirs with the knowledge that tonight stretches away with nothing to fill it but all those ideas of what I might do to John.  I wonder when this will wear off – wonder what will trigger it, what will change the air between us that we no longer crave one another.  I wonder when it will stop, this need for us to be in contact, so that my head leans in to his fingers trailing my scalp and my hand loosely circles his wrist, thumb tracing the tender skin on the inside.  Then John tilts my head back and kisses me, once, on the lips, and for the first time I allow myself to think “if”, and not “when.”


End file.
